“Have some,” I said, holding out the wineskin. “It’s really not too bad.”
He ignored the offer, gaze lingering on our brother’s slack, empty features. The lips had drawn back in death, baring his teeth in a parody of a grin. Unwilling to endure the sight of that grin for long, I occupied myself with another generous gulp of Obvar’s wine.
“Do you know why the priests killed him, Luralyn?” Kehlbrand asked. As usual, his voice was soft. My brother rarely shouted. Even during the duels I had seen him fight, the few words he spoke amidst the tumult of blades were spoken in a steady, almost solicitous murmur. Nevertheless, I can recall no one ever failing to hear or comprehend a single word he said.
“He got the question wrong,” I replied, wiping the sleeve of my formal black cotton robe across my mouth.
“I hear no grief in your voice, little colt,” Kehlbrand said, finally turning to regard me. “Did you not love our brother? Does your heart not break at his departure from this world?”
To anyone listening, his questions would have been taken as earnest, sincere inquiries, coloured by an aggrieved note at my apparent indifference. I, however, knew my brother well enough to recognise gentle mockery when I heard it.
“We were birthed from the same womb,” I said. “But not the same father. Tehlvar was a stranger to me for most of my life. But . . .” I paused to survey the corpse on the altar, struck once again by the sheer number of battle wounds it bore, some long healed, others barely weeks old. Kehlbrand’s body, I knew, was almost entirely free of scars. “Still, I’m sorry he’s gone. He was a good Skeltir, if a little overfond of reciting the priests’ teachings.”
“The priests’ teachings,” Kehlbrand repeated with a slow nod. “He did always love their lessons. ‘I have ranged beyond the Iron Steppe, brother,’ he told me once. ‘The people who dwell there live lives of uncertainty and confusion. They celebrate weakness and revel in greed. They make a virtue of lies and a sin of honesty. When the Mestra-Skeltir rises, he will wash all of that away, in blood. This the priests have seen.’”
He fell silent, reaching out to place his hand over the dull gleam of Tehlvar’s eyes, closing the lids. “But you’re wrong, little colt. They didn’t kill him for the answer he gave. They killed him because he gave no answer. He was not the Mestra-Skeltir, and he knew it.”
“He made way for you,” I said.
“Yes. He told me as much last night. We spoke for a long time and he told me many things, including the question I will be asked tomorrow, and the question to follow a year later should I answer correctly.”
I stared at him in appalled silence, the wineskin almost slipping from my fingers in shock before I mastered myself. I found it necessary to take another drink before speaking on. “He told you? That is heresy!”
Kehlbrand’s teeth, very white, very even, shone as he let out a rare laugh. “In time, dear sister, I will tell you all I learned last night, and you will come to realise the true absurdity of the words you just voiced.”
His mirth subsided quickly and he lifted his hand from Tehlvar’s eyes to grasp my shoulder. “Tomorrow, they will ask for my name.”
“They already know your name. Kehlbrand Reyerik, Skeltir of the Cova Skeld.”
“No, they require another name. A name worthy of the Mestra-Skeltir. A name the soldiers of the Merchant Kings will whisper in fear when they hear the thunder of Stahlhast hooves upon the Steppe. A name that will carry us all the way to the Golden Sea, and beyond.”
His hand moved from my shoulder to my face, cupping my cheek. I saw regret in his face as he smiled at me, guilt too, for he knew the gravity of what he was about to ask. “That is what I need from you: a name. Luralyn, dear sister, it is time for you to dream again.”
Although I tried to resist it, although it was something I had avoided doing ever since coming to this place, my eyes were drawn inevitably to the Sepulchre. It sat in the centre of the half-circle of iron and rock that formed the Great Tor. An unadorned, grey stone box ten paces wide and twelve feet tall with an opening in its east-facing wall. The opening was a black rectangle in the grey stone, for no light came from within. The priests never guarded it. Why bother since no soul would ever venture inside unless commanded to it?
“Do not fear,” Kehlbrand said as my eyes lingered unblinking on the Sepulchre’s black door. “The priests know nothing. We’ve made sure of that.”
“They will,” I said, finding it impossible to quell the tremor in my voice. Unbidden, my hand had stolen into my robe to close on the inscribed tiger’s tooth, clutching it tight. “Even with this, so close . . . to that. They’ll know.”
“You overestimate their abilities. They possess barely a fraction of the power they pretend. Their true power lies in the illusions they spin to capture the souls of our people, and all illusions fade over time. Another lesson Tehlvar imparted last night.”
“They’ll know!” I insisted, hating the sudden tears in my eyes. His request felt like a betrayal, a selfish demand that undid the trust between us. For alone amongst our Skeld, alone amongst all my many siblings and cousins in the Divine Blood, only he knew the truth. Should the priests ever discover it, through the black door I would go, and what emerged would not be me.
“They’ll make me . . .”
My voice failed as he drew me close, his arms enfolding me like twin branches of the mightiest tree. There were other words to come, other pledges and promises, but I have since comprehended that our bond was sealed in this embrace. It was this moment that I became truly his. In his arms all fear fled and I knew he would never allow any harm to be done to me, in body or in soul.
“I will kill every priest should they even suggest it,” he told me, voice soft in my ear. “I will paint this tor with their blood and stake their heads in a circle around the Sepulchre for all the Hast to see.” He drew back, thumbing away my tears as he had done so all those years ago, except this time there would be no slap to follow the kindness. “Do you believe me, little colt?”
“Yes, brother,” I said, pressing my head to his chest, hearing the steady thrum of his heart. “I believe you.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Summoning a True Dream is not a complicated process. Nor is it mystical or ritualistic. Contrary to the beliefs of more unenlightened cultures it requires no incantations, foul-smelling concoctions or blood spilled from unfortunate animals. In truth, as I had discovered in the years since the first manifestation of my gift, it requires only a secure and comfortable place rich in both peace and quiet. Consequently, I forsook the Cova encampment that night. The revels had begun early, customary propriety cast aside in the usual welter of drink, brain-addling snuff and undiscerning copulation.